The Call that Changes Everything
by et voila 1312
Summary: ...were she to look too closely into his eyes, eyes which were at that moment fixed on the still-pale Lisbon, she might just catch a glimpse of what was really going on inside his head. rated T for some language and possible violent imagery. angst/tragedy/friendship.
1. The Call

Hi there, Allison here, otherwise known as et voila 1312. While this is my first Mentalist story, it is not at all my first story; I've been writing in other genres for more than ten years. About eight months or so ago, after that nail-biter of a finale, I wanted to see if there were any stories with Jane/Lisbon friendship/romance themes, and I already knew about this particular site. So I called up the site, typed in those genres, and gorged myself on the pages and pages and PAGES of stories listed. After a while I had a few faves, and even started commenting on those that really stirred my interest (there were lots!); if any of you have a photo-less 'Allison' comment in your story, it might be me! It even got my Muse going again to where I am coming up with my own ideas, hence...ta-da!

Which brings me to now; while there are hundreds of well-written, excellent stories here, there are also stories where I had to dig through so much mess in order to find the story that sometimes I just wouldn't bother. Seriously, sometimes the grammar and punctuation was so bad, it was like...damn. So I decided I had to do something to help, so-

I created an account and, although I am not quite eligible yet, I am (duh-duh-duh-da!) officially offering my services as Beta reader/proofreader. I still have...24? days or approx. 1500 words left until I am eligible, but I wanted to put it out there. I am eminently qualified; as already stated (and is in my Profile), I have been writing for more than ten years (well, my whole life, actually), and also, I have a Writing degree, and am grammar-and-punctuation obsessed. I know people make mistakes, and sometimes typos get away from all of us:), but sometimes it appears as if some authors just don't bother, and that's where I'd like to come in.

Anyway, that's my intro, and now please enjoy my first Mentalist fanfiction effort. I think I got the rating right, but I'd still like to know how to give it more than two categories, (i.e. angst/tragedy/friendship). And I'm still ironing out how to divy up the chapters...

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The Call that Changes Everything

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The Mentalist

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"How is she? Has she woken up yet?" the red-head asked anxiously as she reentered the office, damp dish-towel in hand. She quickly handed it to the tense blonde man sitting at an angle on the large white couch.

"No," Jane answered grimly, shaking his head. Releasing his grip on Lisbon's wrist only long enough to gratefully take the wetted-down cotton from her, he folded it length-wise a few times into a roll, then leaned forward and carefully placed it over the forehead of the unconscious brunette lying on the couch. As he leaned back, his fingers reclaimed their firm, but gentle grip on her wrist, retaking their place below the fingers of his other hand, which remained snugly interlaced with hers.

"How long has she been out?" Grace asked quietly, her voice shaking slightly despite her efforts to stay calm. The entire situation was just too…unnerving, frightening.

Jane angled his head to check the clock on Lisbon's desk.

"Mmm, ten minutes or so," he replied, his own voice deceptively even. He noticed the slight tremor in Van Pelt's voice just now, and silently applauded the rookie agent's strength in ability to control her fear. He, of course, had no such difficulty; to Grace's eyes, he was the picture of calm, if certainly concerned, composure. However, were she to look too closely into his eyes, eyes which were at that moment fixed on the still-pale Lisbon, she might just catch a glimpse of what was really going on inside his head.

Van Pelt exhaled deeply. "Well," she began, placing the palms of her suddenly-twitchy hands on her hips to still them. "Shouldn't we call an ambulance? Or at least have Security bring some oxygen?" No answer. "Jane?"

For a long moment Jane was silent, his blue eyes remained locked on Lisbon's face, his hands still holding her limp one in his lap. Grace started to wonder if he'd forgotten she was even there. Finally he spoke.

"No," he replied simply.

"No?" she echoed.

"Yes, 'no'," he repeated, causing Van Pelt to frown and shake her head in confusion. "There's no need to call an ambulance; the situation is hardly that severe, and you really don't want to drag poor George all the way up here, lugging an oxygen tank, do you, Grace? The poor guy's gout is flaring up again."

"Really?" she asked sympathetically. Jane nodded. "Wait a minute," she blinked. "How did _you_ know George has gout?"

Jane shrugged. "It's obvious; he's been limping the last two days, plus he's been wearing those special sho-"

"Nev-never mind!" she snapped, cutting him off. "How can you say 'the situation is hardly that severe'?" she demanded, gesturing at the woman lying on the couch. "Boss is _unconscious_!"

Jane resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the young woman's need to point out, and over-dramatize, the obvious. Instead, he disentangled his and Lisbon's fingers and reached for the towel.

"Yes, I know," he replied calmly, moving the cloth from her forehead to press it gently against her cheek, then down to her neck. "If you'll recall, Grace, I was in here when it happened. It was _I_ who called _you_ for help."

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Ten minutes earlier….

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"…not only the deputy mayor, _and_ the deputy sheriff, but also two state representatives, _and_," she paused for emphasis, "let's not forget the possible lawsuits from the twenty-seven elderly people at the retirement home who you had convinced had contracted food poisoning!" she railed at Jane, her voice rising in irritation.

"Meh," Jane dismissed without missing a beat. "The sheriff was a pompous, obnoxious little man with an over-inflated sense of his own importance. Not my fault I guessed correctly that his wife was cheating on him," he stated. Their back-and-forth continued as they walked down the hall toward her office.

"Maybe," Lisbon said. "But you certainly didn't have to rub it in his face like that. That was just mean!"

"Tact is for the socially-considerate conscious, Lisbon," he stated. She frowned slightly, trying to recall the source of that quote.

"Who said _that_?"

He turned his head to look at her. "_I_ did, Lisbon, just now," he replied, matter-of-factly, his face straight, but she could see the twinkle in his clear eyes. "Weren't you paying attention?" he scolded, holding her door open for her. She rolled her eyes as she stepped inside. Just then her phone rang.

"And don't worry, my dear," he continued, walking straight to her couch. "There will be no lawsuits; not from old people nor their overly-litigious yet easily-placated relatives. They were just as happy to be alive as I know _you_ once were once there was no longer a threat of poisoned pudding to spoil their afternoon bingo." He dropped casually onto the couch, facing away from her desk, stretched out and made himself comfy, lacing his fingers across his stomach.

"Ugghh," she groaned, both at his cavalier attitude, and upon remembering the time he had her convinced she had only hours to live. She pulled her ringing phone from her jacket pocket.

"Lisbon," she answered, sliding an arm out of one sleeve. "Yes, this is Teresa Lisbon," she stated after a brief pause. Through his doze, Jane's ears twitched and his brow puckered slightly at the subtle change in her voice, but he didn't move.

"Yes, I am," she continued to reply to her caller. She then held the phone to her other ear to slide her jacket off her other arm, draping it over the back of her chair, which was pulled away from her desk, then moved the phone back to the other ear.

"What?" she whispered hoarsely. "Are you sure? I-I mean, are you pos…" her breath caught, and there was another brief pause. "Oh, my god," she exhaled. "Oh my god, no…not…oh no. Please, no…not To…" she wheezed, the phone slipping from her grasp.

Jane finally opened his eyes and lifted his head from its pillow when he heard Lisbon's phone clatter to the floor. The muffled thud of a body hitting the floor a second later brought him to full alertness. He sat up fully and swung around, but Lisbon was no longer standing there.

tbc...


	2. Needing Help

"Lisbon?" he said, and then his eyes fell on her arm, peeking out from behind her desk. "Lisbon!" he repeated, alarmed. He leapt off the couch, and within three strides was behind her desk. She lay twisted on her side, her right arm pinned beneath her head, her left falling over her torso, her dark, wavy hair partially obscuring her face. He immediately knelt over her.

"Lisbon?" he murmured anxiously, touching her shoulder. "Teresa?" he tried again, louder. He shook her gently, using his other hand to brush her hair out of her face, stifling a moan at the sudden paleness of her already-alabaster skin. "Uhhh…" he mumbled, trying to tamp down his growing panic.

"Teresa!" he called to her again, wondering why she hadn't answered him, wishing desperately she'd open her beautiful green, irritated eyes and bark at him, demanding to know why he was hovering over her and yelling at her. At that moment he _really_ needed to hear 'Shut up, Jane!' or 'Jane, stop hovering, I'm fine!'. But no such reprimand came from her pale lips. He straightened and turned to look through the blinds out into the bullpen.

"Hey guys!" he yelled. "Anyone? Ah, need some help in here, please!" His eyes scanned the office for the familiar faces of his teammates, but at that moment, there wasn't an agent in sight.

"Cho! Rigsby!" he called again, mentally cursing when he heard his own voice breaking; it would never do for any of them to catch him at a moment of weakness or vulnerability. He was Patrick Jane; nothing rattled him, nothing unnerved him, or caught him unawares. That was the perception that had to be maintained. Finally someone appeared in the door.

"Hey Jane," Van Pelt said pleasantly. "The guys are at lunch. What's up?" she asked, her delicate brows first lifting, then frowning, in confused amusement.

"What's going on? Why are you behind Boss's desk?" she asked, moving closer. Instantly her expression shifted from amusement at Jane's 'antics', to fear upon finding her stronger-than-diamonds boss now lying at Jane's feet.

"Oh my God!" she exclaimed. "What happened? Is she okay? What's wrong with her?" she questioned in a rush, her voice rising.

Jane realized he needed to get control of the situation, or he'd have to deal with one what-he-assumed-was-unconscious woman, and one well-meaning-but-hyperventilating woman. He raised his hand in a calming, 'stop' gesture, which seemed to have the desired effect.

"Breathe, Grace," he ordered firmly, but soothingly. She did so, and he then turned his attention back to Lisbon. "She's fine," he lied quietly, cradling her cheek in one hand, checking the pulse at her throat with the other. "I believe she just passed out, although from what, I'm not sure, yet."

He stood, repositioning himself at Lisbon's head, lowering her right arm to her side, then lifted her upper body against his chest, cradling her head against his shoulder. Grace immediately grasped the small woman's calves and flats-encased feet, and together they lifted her off the floor and carried her the few feet to the couch.

Setting her down on the huge sofa which, at the moment Jane thought, seemed to dwarf her, he propped her head against one pillow, and elevated her feet with another.

"I'll go get a damp towel from the kitchen," Grace said, now fully back in CBI agent/concerned-but-rational-friend mode, and darted from the office before he could reply. Not that she expected him to.

He sat next to her, and immediately lifted her right hand, lacing his right-hand fingers with hers, and placing it in his lap. His other fingers gently covered the pulse at her wrist, and two obnoxious thoughts began to battle for prominence in his head as he fixated on her face: one, her normally exquisitely-warm skin was now ice-cold, the unwelcome chill currently seeping into him, and two, her rock-steady, Gibraltar pulse was skipping much too fast for his liking. Her chest rose and fell almost imperceptively with each shallow breath, and almost completely absent from her lovely face was his favorite Lisbon-blush; even her closed lids were frighteningly white.

Suffice it to say, the whole picture was just _wrong_.

"Lisbon," he murmured, keeping his voice low, but insistent. "Lisbon, it's Jane. Can you hear me?" No response. He glanced down at their joined hands.

"Teresa, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand." Still nothing. He lifted his gaze back to her face, his concern growing. In an attempt to bring warmth back into her chilled skin, he moved his fingers from her wrist and began to rub her slender fingers with his palm. He did this for a full minute, but when there was still no response to his stimulation, he placed his fingers back at her pulse.

Van Pelt soon reappeared with a damp kitchen towel, and upon Jane's statement that their boss and friend was still unresponsive, grew even more agitated. Finally, after a brief debate over how to help her, Van Pelt's agitation boiled over.

"Boss is _unconscious_!"

Jane sighed, trying to stay patient. 'This woman is a trained, gun-toting, state law-enforcement agent?' he thought in mild disbelief. Instead, he disentangled his and Lisbon's fingers and reached for the towel.

"Yes, I know," he replied calmly, moving the cloth from her forehead to press it gently against her cheek, then down to her neck. "If you'll recall, Grace, I was in here when it happened. It was _I_ who called _you_ for help."

"Yes," she huffed in irritation. "I know that. But we have to do some-" she started, but he cut her off again.

"I _am_ doing something; _I_ am keeping her cooled off, 'although she hardly needs it, her fingers are like icicles, Jane thought,' keeping her feet elevated, and monitoring her vitals." He looked at her.

"You're the _CBI agent_, Grace," he reminded patronizingly. "If you're so eager to do something productive, you could start by looking for her phone."

Grace frowned. "Why Boss's phone?"

"Ah, because she had gotten a call and was talking to someone when she fainted," he replied condescendingly. "She was behind her desk; I believe you'll find the phone somewhere underneath it."

Grace went behind Lisbon's desk, did a quick cursory check, then dropped to her knees for a better look.

"Got it!" she announced, standing back up. She held the electronic gadget to her ear, but received only a dial-tone, so she hung up. "Do you know who Lisbon was talking to?" Van Pelt asked.

Jane shook his head. "Just that they were telling her something terrible," he supplied. "Her tone and demeanor changed compl-" he continued, but was cut off as the phone in Van Pelt's hand rang again.

"Maybe this is them, calling back," she chirped, her expression brightening. "Van Pelt, CBI," she answered professionally.

"This is Detective Todd Wilcox, Chicago P. D.," a brusque man said in a tell-tale accent. "I'm trying to reach Teresa Lisbon at the CBI in Sacramento." 'Chicago?' thought Van Pelt. 'That's where Boss is from.'

"I'm Agent Van Pelt, I'm on Lisbon's team," Grace explained. "Has something happened?"

"I've been trying to get a hold of Agent Lisbon; I called a few minutes ago, but I guess we got disconnected. We received a call early this morning from the Illinois State Highway Patrol that there'd been an accident…"

Van Pelt, her stomach plummeting in heart-breaking comprehension for her boss and friend, listened in wide-eyed dismay as the detective from Lisbon's hometown relayed the news that a car had skidded on a patch of black ice and hit a guard rail at a high rate of speed.

"...driver was identified as Thomas Mitchell Lisbon," the detective continued. "Records identified Agent Lisbon as next of kin…" as he continued, Van Pelt carefully lowered and covered the receiver with her fingers.

"Jane," Grace said softly, this time not bothering to keep her voice from shaking. "Lisbon's brother Tommy is dead. There was an accident, something about icy roads, his car hit a guard rail…" she trailed off helplessly.

Lisbon's disjointed words from just before her collapse echoed perfectly through Jane's head:

-"'Oh my god, no…not…oh no. Please, no…not To…'"-

"Please, not To…" he reasoned aloud. "Not _Tommy_," he finished in understanding, looking sadly at Lisbon, stroking her cheek with the quickly drying towel.

His favorite pint-sized agent was so strong, so fearless, forever tackling her job with steely-nerved fervor. He was constantly in awe of her skill in reducing even the nastiest, most heinous, unsavory characters into quaking, quivering, fearful messes.

But she was also _Teresa_, the protective sister turned foster mother to three quarrelling younger brothers, brothers whom he knew she felt guilty about not seeing more often. She didn't discuss family often, but when the subject did come up, he could plainly see the guilt and regret so poorly concealed in her green eyes.

So he knew without a doubt what getting that call from Chicago had done to his unshakeable Lisbon.

He foresaw the anger, and the anguish, and the inevitable guilt she'd undoubtedly feel when she woke up, and he silently cursed the twisted fates that could so cruelly take both her beloved mother, and now her little brother in senseless, stupid car crashes.

If Jane had believed in God, he would have cursed Him too.

tbc...

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A/N - ok, ok, please don't me mad at me for killing Tommy, now that we've all met him, and realize he's the kid from "E.T." Also, this _is _a Jane/Lisbon story; Van Pelt will _not _really play a central part here, she just helped start it off. She'll be the main focus of my _next_ story!


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